Chapter twenty five - salvation in the secular age

how do I avoid dying on a 7 day intense outdoor art trip when i cant actually stand up for more than ten minutes without blacking out from the pain

how do i stop the constant agony I live with when im completely resistant to painkillers

how do i tell the people i love how much i love them while still being socially appropriate

how do i stop people making fun of my mannerisms and shit without losing it and literally marching up and going OK IM AUTISTIC AND U ARE MAKING FUN OF AUTISTIC MANNERISMS SO WILL U SHUT UP ?

hahahahahah never mind

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I wasn't Gerard's.

I wasn't his, and I was never going to be, but I wasn't yet willing to disturb his distorted image of our relationship. Some force compelled me to preserve his serene state of mind for as long as possible until I confronted him– but I doubted that that would be too far in the future. Even more did I doubt that our power equilibrium would last through Gerard discovering that I was actually a human being of my own. (Though there were a fair few stages of hideous disaster between Gerard's cluelessness and blessed enlightenment.)

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A slash of a knife on my sleeve, tearing the fabric and searing a bloody slice into my arm. Gerard's burning eyes, cauterising the wound, and forcing it to split further open at the same time. It all came in flashes.

"You're getting obsessed, Gerard," I hissed. "You have no right to claim ownership over me."

"I need you–"

"You need trust. You need to understand–"

Gerard grabbed at my throat and I choked on a growl. "You need to understand that I fucking need you, Frank," he snarled as I fought to pry away his hands.

I was relatively successful, and tried to catch my breath now that my throat was freer. "I trust you," I said in a low voice, "And you need to learn to fucking appreciate it and trust me back. For god's sake, I'm not going to help you if you're going to keep being such a bastard."

Gerard looked deadened, just staring at me for a moment. Then he punched me in the face.

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Gerard's insults and sharp words were softer than his apologies. His apologies were like acid; so desperate, tasting so rancid on his mouth when he kissed me again.

He offered to let me punch him in return, and I told him I wasn't sure he'd quite grasped the definition of forgiveness yet. He clutched at my hands, and I twisted my fingers so I could press into the jagged cut on his palm. He tensed with a sharp intake of breath, and I just laughed: this was the definition of forgiveness.

"Don't leave me," Gerard said.

"You're a volatile fucker for someone so clueless, you know." I flicked some of his hair out of his eyes, sprinkling a little blood over his face.

"Yes," he muttered sullenly. "I know."

"But in a sort of good way," I mused. "Most of the time."

Gerard's eyes followed mine, like he was tracking me, trying to read me. "I'm sorry." He touched the bruise on my cheekbone. "I don't know what's wrong with me, I'm just–"

"You're just you."

Gerard winced.

"That's all right," I said. "You're all right. A little bit damaged, but we all are, in our own special ways."

A little sigh warmed my neck and Gerard's fingertips found the line of my jaw where he had scratched at my skin with his dagger.

"Don't get too close," I murmured. "I bite."

"The tongue of forgiveness is sharp, huh?"

"Sharper than your little knife," I said. "I could take you."

Gerard huffed a laugh against my shoulder. "Sure you could, pretty boy."

"You wanna go?"

"We both know how it's going to end," he teased.

I held Gerard to my chest and took a step forwards, pushing him slightly off balance so I could gain the more advantageous position. "With you on the floor," I said, and his breath stopped for a second.

"No," he then said, quietly. "I know where this really ends."

I sighed, and closed my eyes. "Parade Island," I muttered.

A low hum resonated in Gerard's chest. "Parade Island."

"Let's hope I manage to keep a grasp on my sanity."

The ends of Gerard's hair tickled my neck. "Thank you," he said. "Pretty boy."

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The shriek of the ship's bows on the warding jagged rocks pierced the air, and pierced our clear path to the cove of Parade Island. To my great despair, and Gerard's great joy, we were almost at the climax of this alleged adventure, and it looked like we really were going to make it.

I probably should have been focused on the fact that if this didn't go as planned I would lose my mind forever, but exceedingly usefully, the predominant thought in my head was a wonderment on whether Gerard had been a virgin before Ryan or not. It had never really occurred to me; he had always seemed so sure of himself around taboo subjects– but perhaps it had been a cover.

Ryan always seemed able to reign this quiet dominant force over Gerard, and despite Gerard's inescapable conceitedness, it was always easy to distinguish which way the power dynamic in their relationship leant. Gerard was confident, granted, but he was clumsy. He pandered to Ryan, like Ryan was a new toy he wasn't entirely sure how to use, but was intent on enjoying anyway.

Had Gerard ever been with a woman? I doubted it. It was something you could see on a man, and not only from the traces of rouge left on his collar. You could see the way they revered each small touch from a lady, like every piece of contact was a memory of something wonderful and womanly. I had never really understood this. Emily had been beautiful and soft and womanly, and supposedly everything a man could want, but her touch did not leave an imprint on my skin, and the way she smelled did not make my heart warm, but conversely made me seize up into a terrible cough: the fashion at the time had been to cake yourself in perfume and lead and powder until you looked like an oversized cream puff, and the concoction of chemicals did my lungs little good.

It was clear that Gerard too did not revere a lady's touch as some did. It seemed like he appreciated it, but more out of some kind of mutual respect rather than delicate adoration. He identified with the women we met at ports, in a sort of distant, hopeless way that evolved (or devolved) into a sad sense of self-preservation after Ryan died. (Most of the women we were in contact with– if not all– were prostitutes, and unfortunately, the entire crew's love of sex was an inevitable draw for them to keep returning, leaving Gerard to gaze into the horizon to the faded sound of the girls' giggles and dramatically reminisce, like he was in a Jane Austen novel. He would most certainly be Heathcliff, skulking about the world. I begrudgingly supposed that that made me Elizabeth.)

As we rowed sluggishly through the silt, dark brown water spilling down the oars and down our hands, it started to dawn on me how extremely serious this extremely serious matter actually was. I hadn't believed it for what it was, just followed the breadcrumb trail Gerard had left for me and been taken in by it all. Maybe I was going to go mad.

Perhaps– no, I couldn't be. Could I? Perhaps I was already mad, whether the gates would open for me or not. And perhaps I didn't care.

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angel belle you're beautiful